He may be an idiot, but he's MY idiot
by Aaymeirah
Summary: Being a spy for the British counter-intelligence isn't as exiting as Crowley would have liked. Despite his newfound fame for accurate information of questionable origin, he still has to occasionally meet up with the local spy rings. Reports and paperwork are unquestionably boring, but sometimes they reveal familiar faces. Familiar faces who just might be in over their heads.


Crowley sauntered into the bunker confidently, as if it wasn't a secret location. As if no one could see a black clad figure walking confidently through the back door of an abandoned shop after curfew.

"Hello Boot, Jib, Sarah and new person. What's up?" he pulled an old chair from the wall, legs scraping loudly against the tile floor, then sat down casually.

"Nice to see you could make it Mr. Crowley," the head of this cell who was know only as the Boot to her operatives said through gritted teeth. Almost everyone had heard of him, but that didn't mean everyone liked him. What with his propensity to take orders only as strong suggestions and sporadic visits with accurate information of questionable origin, Crowley thought it would be very easy for humans to get jealous of his spying prowess. (Never mind the occult powers he sometimes used.)

"Well, I was in the area and thought I'd pop by. See how the Effort is going and all."

"We are discussing bomb patterns and a most annoying circle of spies that seems to have taken root in London."

"Oh, like you lot."

"We are not Nazis."

"I know that," said Crowley scornfully, "I wouldn't work with you people if you were." (At least the British spies don't take part in the slaughter of thousands of children.)

"As I was saying. The bombs will fall in the East-End tonight, we have received an intelligence report that the Nazis have duped a bookseller and collector to obtain rare tomes of prophecy for them. Not to mention a Nazi spy pretending to be part of British Military Intelligence."

"Prophecy? The Nazis think that'll help them? Prophecies aren't real," scoffed Jib. In response, Crowley laughed softly. Jib turned towards him.

"What, you think prophecies are real and that there is actually something behind Hitler's obsession with the occult?"

"It's- not outside the realm of possibility," replied Crowley.

"Leave him be Jib," said Sarah.

"You're just soft on him because he's a well know spy," accuse Jib.

"but isn't the purpose of spying to go unnoticed?" the new man spoke.

"And who're you?" asked Crowley.

"Exactly," the new man responded, triumph over proving a point evident in his voice.

"Exactly," Crowley mimicked him under his breath.

"He brought the report of the deal we should be discussing that will take place in a few hours," explained the Boot.

"This bookseller sounds like an idiot," Crowley mumbled, making sure to scrape the chair annoyingly as he slowly scooted towards the table and the files.

"I got pictures of the bookseller and have been observing him. Seems he genuinely thinks he's double crossing those half-witted Nazis," the new man gestured to the folder. Crowley picked it up and leafed through it. Boring paperwork, codes, reports…pictures!

Crowley felt his eyes widen as he saw the grainy picture of a man with startlingly bright hair. Unwillingly, his head dropped to the cold table so that his forehead rested on it.

"He's an idiot all right." Crowley muttered. (Angel what have you gotten into now?)

"Boot, do you want me and Jib to go intercept the deal?" asked Sarah, somewhat used to Crowley's strange behavior and this able to ignore his muffled groan at seeing the picture.

"Oh, no. Don't do that. I'll take care of it myself," Crowley stopped that idea before it could take root like one of his finer temptations. "It's dangerous out there. Bombs. Easy for humans to die. Yeah. I'll take care of it, okay?" he continued, lifting his head up to emphasize the point. (Good going Crowley, in your worry, you slipped up.)

"Humans?" Jib demanded incredulously, "you're a human!"

"Right?" asked Sarah, semi-serious.

"Well. Erm. Yeah. Anyways. I'll see you lot around," Crowley stood up quickly, forgetting to scrape the chair on purpose and walked quickly to the door. (He was demon for Satan's sake! Why didn't he just lie?)

"Do you know that idiotic and naïve bookseller duped by the Nazis or something?" asked the new man from his slouch against the wall.

"Watch it there, he may be an idiot, but he's MY idiot." Crowley growled this without turning around before leaving the bunker and selfishly banging the door shut.

(Probably shouldn't have said that out loud.)

One part of him thought that as he double stepped it to the Church where the report said the deal was taking place. Yet another was glad to have finally said out loud what he had been thinking inside of himself since he first laid eyes on Aziraphale.

He's MY idiot.


End file.
